All The Way Down

By David Kearns

Oklahoma-based bounty hunter Delorean Harper has few responsibilities and no one to answer to, which is just the way he likes it. That changes in an instant when Delorean’s brother Bricklin is nearly killed in an accident at a quarry outside of Alamogordo, New Mexico. Delorean rushes to Bricklin’s side, but he’s too late. His world is shattered when Bricklin dies from his injuries, a mechanic is murdered in Delorean’s car, and an autopsy shows that Bricklin’s accident was no accident at all.

Delorean begins investigating his brother’s death and soon becomes involved with Michelle, a beautiful woman with money trouble who was Bricklin’s lover until shortly before his death. Delorean crosses paths with the police too many times as he and Michelle try to identify the killer, and soon the police tell him to stop interfering in police business or face hard time in jail. One sympathetic police officer, Sandy, is willing to help Delorean with his investigation in secret, but only if the investigation leads where she wants it to go. Delorean won’t back down even when it becomes clear that he and Michelle have become the next targets of a killer who’ll do anything to cover his tracks.

In desperation, Delorean sets a trap for the killer in the desert and waits for a showdown. But he’s never gone up against anyone so cunning and violent before and soon Delorean is the one who’s in the trap. Can Delorean outwit a cold-blooded killer and solve the mystery of his brother’s death – or will he die trying?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Kearns
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370775101

David Kearns

I'm a mystery writer inspired by authors who know how to mix suspense, humor, violence, passion, and humanity in a way that carries the reader along on a great ride. The Delorean Harper series tries to do just that.I live in Portland, Oregon, the epicenter for coffee shops, microbrews, rainy winters and glorious summers.My favorite mystery authors are John D. MacDonald, Robert Parker, James Lee Burke, Adrian McKinty, Mickey Spillane

Book preview

Chapter One

I met Dean Elliott at the quarry the day after my brother died. Dean cleared off a chair for me in his cramped office and got me a cup of coffee. We looked at each other across Dean’s desk, which was piled a foot deep with computer printouts.

I’m so damn sorry about your brother, Dean said.

Thanks.

If there’s anything I can do.

I took a sip of my coffee and thought about it. Then I put the Styrofoam coffee cup on top of one of the stacks of printouts.

I’d like to see where the accident happened, I said.

Dean said I can arrange that. He got up from behind his desk, and I followed him out of the office. He was taller and wider than me, built like a heavyweight fighter except for the roll of fat around his waistline. We stopped at his secretary’s desk on the way out. He introduced me to her and told her that he was going to take me over to the pit for a while. She hadn’t been at her desk when Dean took me back to his office, so we hadn’t met. She had cinnamon-colored skin and dark brown hair that fell to the middle of her back. The phone rang, and she picked it up, nodding at Dean to let him know that she understood. Then she glanced at me before looking away.

Come on, Dean said. Let’s go. We went down a long aisle of beige-colored cubicles and out through a side door of the administration building. Stepping outside into the heat felt like leaning into a fireplace to put another log on the fire, but I guess Dean was used to it. He shuffled down the sidewalk quickly, rocking from side to side on his cowboy boots. I unbuttoned the top buttons on my shirt and tried to keep up.

We reached the entrance to one of the huge corrugated tin buildings that border the south edge of the quarry. The building’s open doors were three stories tall and hung on rollers so they could be slid out of the way. Just inside the doors, two shirtless mechanics had pulled the blade off a road grader and one of the men was yelling about the hydraulics being shot. This here’s the doghouse, Dean said. It’s where we do the maintenance work on the machinery. Brick’s truck is in there, too. What’s left of it, I mean.

I told him I wanted to see Brick’s truck. He nodded, and we went through the doorway into the shade. Giant electric fans mounted high on the walls pumped stale air to the outside, but they didn’t seem to help much. The smell of gasoline and diesel exhaust was thick, and it was nearly as hot inside as out. We followed a set of foot-deep ruts that ran the length of the hangar. It looked like something with huge claws had been dragged across the earth, ripping up the hardened soil. As we walked, Dean pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. We went past a dozen earth movers, dump trucks, and road-watering trucks. When we reached the far end of the building, the ruts ended at a big, lime-green dump truck. Dean nodded at it before spitting a piece of tobacco at the ground.

That’s the one, he said.

The driver’s cab was caved in, the dumping bed was flattened, and the front end was mashed in like a bulldog’s face. There were burn marks from a cutting torch around the empty door frame, and the front fenders were blackened from fire. Spider-webbed glass from the windshield lay across the hood in a hump.

That’s a two hundred thousand dollar truck, Dean said. But it doesn’t stop drivers from making mistakes. You don’t pay attention and they’ll kill ya.

I looked up into the cab and thought about what it must have been like for Brick when he realized he’d gone over the edge into the quarry pit. Maybe it was the heat, or Dean’s foul-smelling cigar, but I felt sick at my stomach. I told Dean I’d seen enough. He grunted, and we went back past all the heavy equipment and out into the brilliant sunshine.

We followed the sidewalk to the road where the earth movers and dump trucks accessed the quarry pit. The road was easily wide enough to handle two of the dump trucks abreast, and its surface was packed hard and smooth from traffic. We walked several hundred yards along the road in silence, with Dean still smoking his cigar and scuffing his boot heels against the dirt. The noise from the machinery in the pit grew louder as we reached the place where the road connected with the edge of the pit before descending. The sheer size of the hole stunned me. It looked like it was half a mile across and probably a thousand feet deep.

God, I said. It’s huge.

Big, ain’t it?

I stared into the pit, watching the trucks snake their way up and down the road that lead to the bottom of the quarry. Dean waited patiently, puffing on his cigar. Far below us, a pair of trucks passed each other on the road. The lane at the edge was used for up traffic, the lane against the quarry wall for the trip down.

Was Brick on his way up or down? I asked.

Down.

So his truck wasn’t carrying anything, right?

That’s right.

Road seems plenty wide.

Yessir, it does, Dean agreed, chewing the words around his cigar.

So Brick drove clear across the inside lane before going over the edge?

Sure looks that way.

Where did the truck go over?

Pretty damn much straight down from where we stand, Dean said. He used the wet end of his cigar to point past our feet at an outcropping about 500 feet down the sloping pit wall. Truck stopped yonder, Dean continued. Almost went all the way down. Then he heaved a sigh and flicked the cigar into the void. I watched it tumble and smoke and spark until I couldn’t see it any more.

Chapter Two

I left the quarry parking lot and began the six mile drive back to the highway. The asphalt road cut arrow-straight through the desert just a few miles north of the Mexican border. Rust-colored mountains box the desert in on all sides, and I was headed north towards White Sands, the heart of the San Andres desert.

The land in that part of New Mexico was once a shallow sea with a high concentration of minerals, but all that’s left now is scorched earth. The quarry that my brother worked at outside of Alamogordo runs 24 hours a day, clawing and blasting the minerals loose so they can be trucked away for refining, or smelting, or shipping somewhere. Truck drivers push loads of ore mined from beneath the desert up Interstate 70 to a train yard on the far side of Alamogordo.

I was a couple of miles away from the quarry when one of the ore trucks on its way to the highway filled my rear view mirror. It blasted its air horn and shifted over into the passing lane to get by. I edged onto the shoulder to give the truck some room, but I went a little too far onto the sand and heard the tire make a roaring, grinding sound like a bad wheel bearing makes.

When the truck was past me I tried to steer back onto the road. I could tell I had tire damage from the way the car pulled to the right, so I coasted to a stop with the car parked half on the shoulder and half on the road. The truck dragged a tornado of sand behind it along the road, and I heard the hiss of the sand striking my car. When the hissing stopped I got out into the heat. I could hear the whine of the dump truck shifting through its gears on its way to the highway.

The dry lake surface had shredded the sidewall of my right front tire to a steel-belted rag. I walked around to the trunk to get the spare and saw heat waves shimmering off the paint on my Camaro, making the hills in the distance seem more like a mirage than a mountain range. I wondered how many times Brick had seen that same view. Taking care not to touch the hot trunk lid with my hands, I popped the lid, pulled the spare out, and rested it against the bumper. So far, so good. When I leaned into the trunk to grab the jack, though, it wasn't in there. I tried to remember the last time I had used it, as if that would help. I hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night, and the nine hour drive from Oklahoma didn't help much, either. I tossed the spare back into the trunk and shut the lid with my elbow, considering my options.

If I could hitch a ride in either direction, I would take it. If not, I would have to walk. The access road connected with the interstate about four miles ahead. The quarry was only a couple of miles back, which seemed like a lot better deal for an afternoon hike. There was no wind at all, and it had to be over a hundred degrees. Even with my sunglasses on, the glare was intense. I shielded my eyes and looked back towards the quarry. The corrugated tin buildings that I’d visited with Dean were several stories tall but they were barely visible, their image shimmering in the superheated air.

I noticed a car coming along the road from the quarry, which raised my spirits. I waited for it, and when it was close enough to do me some good, I stood in the middle of my lane and stuck my thumb out. Maybe I wouldn't have to walk after all.

An old blue Impala with paint faded to chalk slowed as it came near. It had a dead sparrow jammed into the grill on the driver's side and the hubcaps were missing. The car stopped and the passenger rolled down his window. He had a broad nut-brown face and shiny black shoulder length hair. He looked at me through dark sunglasses with pink rubber frames.

Car trouble? he asked.

I blew a tire, I said. I can't fix it.

He nodded. Want a ride into town?

Thanks.

I climbed into the back seat of the Chevy. The interior reeked of beer and cigarettes, but the cloth upholstery was cool to the touch. I shuffled my feet in the empty beer cans to clear a place for my feet. Willie Nelson was on the radio singing Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.

The driver jumped on the gas. I took one last look at my car as we pulled away. The right front fender hung nearly to the pavement.

Thanks for the ride, I said. I appreciate it.

The driver tilted his head back and looked at me in the rear view mirror through silvered aviator sunglasses.

No problem, he said. You looking for a job at the quarry?

No. I'm just here for a couple of days. Name's Del Harper.

Ray Archer, the driver said. He jerked a thumb at the passenger. This here's Marty Broad Eagle.

Ray looked about thirty-five and had a short haircut. He popped open a tab on a can of beer and eased off the gas a little. I couldn't see the speedometer from where I sat, but I guessed we were going 70 or 80.

Ray's neck was a fierce red with deep wrinkles crisscrossing it. He was heavily built, and his gray T-shirt rode up on his biceps as he steered.

Ray and Marty didn't talk much. They had an insulated lunch box on the seat between them, and they seemed preoccupied with wolfing down their food. Ray held his beer and the steering wheel in his right hand and a sub sandwich in his left. Marty chewed on a chili dog and sipped on a beer. When it looked like some of the chili might drip onto his lap, he'd hold the hot dog out at arm's length in the foot well of the car and let it drip there. Ray didn’t seem to care.

Ray tilted his head back a little and watched me in the rear view mirror. I looked away, staring out the window.

Want a beer? Marty asked.

I returned from my reverie. Sure, I said.

Marty dug into the cooler and handed a can of beer back to me. I popped the tab and gunned down a couple big swallows. I could barely taste it; I just felt the cold running down my throat and settling in my stomach.

What were you doing out at the quarry today? Marty asked.

My brother was in an accident there yesterday, I said. I came out to see where it happened. Marty twisted in his seat to face me. He had a small dab of dried chili in the corner of his mouth.

You kiddin' me? You're Brick's brother?

That's right. You knew him?

Marty shrugged. His expression was impossible to read through the sunglasses.

Yeah. He was another driver. I saw him around. Shame about what happened though.

Marty turned back around in his seat and lit a cigarette. I cracked my window to pull the smoke from the car and I took another swallow of the beer. If I could have willed the contents of the can into my stomach without the effort of swallowing, I think I would have. I was bone tired and ready for anything to take the edge off of my exhaustion.

Ray slowed the car to a crawl when we reached the gravel on-ramp to Interstate 70, then nosed the big Chevy onto the highway and stomped on the gas again. We were headed east, then, back towards Alamogordo. We passed a parking lot on the right side of the road where a highway patrol car and a shiny, olive-colored bus with wire mesh welded over the windows sat in the lot. A white and tan trailer home with a symbol like a sheriff’s badge painted on it rested on concrete blocks.

What's that about? I asked.

Migra, Marty said. Immigration.

They must want it pretty bad if they're willing to hike through the desert, I said.

Marty shrugged. The desert cools off at night. It's not too tough to cross if you know what direction north is. Some of them try to get through in cars coming from Los Cruces. Desert’s cheaper.

Ray changed lanes to get around a station wagon that was turning into the White Sands National Monument entrance. A half-dozen motor homes sat in the monument parking lot. A trim, gray-haired woman with a Chihuahua tucked under one arm filled a silver bowl with water from a pipe by the public restrooms. An asphalt road led north into the dunes past a tollbooth.

Ray put his beer can between his legs and slowed the car as we approached the Holloman Air Force Base exit. A highway patrol car sat in the shade of the underpass, clocking traffic for speed. Ray had anticipated that. He must have known the trooper’s routine.

I spotted a gas station up ahead on the opposite side of the highway. The white building had an art deco shape with a red awning over the pumps to provide shade. A large tow truck sat beside the station entrance.

Could you let me out across from the gas station? I asked.

Ray didn't answer. He took a long swallow of his beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I was about to ask again when he began slowing down. He stopped the car on the road shoulder opposite the station.

Thanks for the ride, I said

Ray just stared at me through the silvered lenses. Conversation over, I guess. Marty had his back to me and had a cigarette going. Smoke seemed to be curling up from his lap.

See you around, Marty said.

I got out of the car and reached for the door handle to close the door, but Ray hit the gas first, pulling the door from my hand and showering my legs with gravel from the road shoulder. I gave Ray the finger but I doubted that he saw it through the cloud of dust he’d raised.

I waited until a semi truck heading west went by, and then I jogged across the highway into the gas station parking lot. The station had been renovated recently. The pumps were shiny and the awning over the pumps had fresh paint on it. A sign above the cashier's office door announced SNACK SHOP. I could see the cashier in there opening cigarette cartons and stuffing the packs into racks hanging over the register. A pay telephone was mounted outside the door to the cashier's office. The garage doors on both service bays were open, and a white pickup sat in one bay with its hood up. A mechanic in gray overalls was bent over the left front fender